No, I would prefer not to get up. This liminal state suites me fine. This light on me, a dull, duplicated thing, a greyish pigment, pixels suffusing harsh rays. Muggy light, inconsistent with my rise. No, I'd rather not. Pim, the boy cat, inches closer, silky bristles brush my noseas he pivots, devilishly, to effect my wakening with whiskers. Soon I will have no choice, my rediscovered self broken by small motions, retreat of ghosts, and little empty bellies in need of filling.
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